


The Swan Prince

by celedan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternative First Meeting, First Kiss, First Time, John to the Rescue, M/M, Magical Creatures, Sherlock is cursed, Sherlock's First Time, Translation Available, True Love's Kiss, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan
Summary: In Regent's Park, John is rescued from a hell hound by a swan who then doesn't want to let John go any more. Intrigued by this swan, John returns to Regent's Park every day.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Der Schwanenprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707605) by [celedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan). 



> This is a translation from my German fic Der Schwanenprinz. You can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4707605  
> Originally, it was inspired by The Regent's Park Regulars by Basingstoke. http://archiveofourown.org/works/318494

Actually, Regent ’ s Park was really pretty, thought John as he took in a deep breath of fresh, clear spring air. Certainly better than his depressing little room. Strictly speaking, everything was better than this room, therefore it probably didn't really say anything about the park's beauty after all. 

Some ducks peacefully floated on the water in close proximity to the bench on which he sat. A lonely swan, huge and majestic, came nearer slowly.

The sounds of steps to his left made him look up. A jogger had stopped at the bench to retie his shoes. Therefore, John didn't pay him further heed, instead letting his gaze slide out over the lake again.

Suddenly, the man jumped back. John looked up again, raising one eyebrow in astonishment.

“You'd better make yourself scarce,” the man advised him and pointed with his chin in the direction of the water where the swan had arrived on the shore in the meantime. “This swan is pretty infamous here. Probably the biggest and most beautiful animal in whole Britain, but also the most aggressive. Has already attacked a few people.”

John let his gaze switch between the jogger and the advancing swan. He wanted to ask why they simply didn't lock up or put the animal down if it was that dangerous, but then he remembered that swans were under the personal protection of the king ever since. His service overseas obviously let him forget such trivial details.

Therefore, he nodded. “Thanks. I'll be careful.”

The jogger returned the nod and then immediately made himself scarce.

Alone again, John eyed the swan critically. The huge bird still came closer. It was already so close to the shallow embankment that it could heave its massive body out of the water to waddle ashore. It didn't appear to be dangerous, only elegant and graceful when it had still been in the water, and now, ashore, a little clumsy. But on the other hand, it was common knowledge after all how aggressive swans could be. Therefore, to be on the safe side, it probably was his turn to bolt now.

John struggled up – his leg protested fiercely so that he immediately regretted being stubborn this morning and leaving his cane behind – and wanted to walk around the bench to get back on the path when a loud rustling in the bushes on the other side of the footpath and a threatening growl made him freeze in alarm.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then a monstrous dog jumped from the bushes. His dark brown fur was shaggy and dirty, saliva dripped from the huge, sharp canines in its open muzzle, and his red eyes flashed dangerously. So, no normal dog, but a hell hound.

What the hell did a hell hound in Regent ’ s Park?! The Royal Animal Catcher were normally pretty vigilant concerning these beasts within the city, weren't they? 

John tensed every muscle in his body. Flight was out of the question, the demon would have caught up with him in seconds. A fight wasn't really advisable either, but probably his only chance.

He tried to stare the dog down. He'd heard that sometimes this worked, that the animal accepted the more dominant one if it averted its gaze first, but the madness shining back at him from the red eyes told John that it wouldn't work this time.

He never in his life had wished more strongly for his illegally taken service weapon than now.

A tremble passed through the big, heavily muscled body, then the hell hound jumped.

John braced his feet against the earth, prepared for the clash, but before the dog reached him, a white mass suddenly dashed between John and the assailant, which, perplexed, came to a slithering stop.

Shocked, John watched how the swan drew up to his full, impressive height between him and the dog, hissing angrily and his wings spread wide. The dog remained perfectly still for a moment, obviously irritated about this new opponent, assessing, but then he proceeded to attack once more.

Technically, John should think about running away – limping away –, but he couldn't. The fighting animals blocked his escape route forwards, behind him only the lake. But that wasn't the reason for his immobility. Fascinated and overwhelmed, he watched the fight of the swan with the hell hound. The normally rather heavy and ungainly bird, whose grace and beauty lay in slow, majestic movements, now evaded the sharp teeth of the dog with surprising skill and speed while the swan himself hammered at the dog with his big, hard wings, and came hurtling down on the beast with his sharp beak. The spitting, hissing and furious snarls of the two animals was ear-deafening, cutting out everything else around John.

The rivals sprang apart, the swan was driven back so that he almost collided with John's legs. He realised that the dog launched into another leap. Then, a shot seemed to tear the air apart.

Frantic quacking and splattering behind him told him that the ducks had taken flight while the shot still echoed in the park's sudden unnatural silence. The agitated barking of a dog in the distance was the only current sound.

John's gaze flitted over the lifeless hell hound, lying barely three metres away from him. The swan still stood in a protective stance before John, its wings widely spread in a threatening gesture.

A group of men burst through the bushes. They wore the uniforms of the Royal Animal Catcher. Their rifles still at the ready, they advanced on the dead demon, which definitely didn't stir any more. Then, they switched their attention to John and drew nearer.

And once more, the swan hissed enraged.

Abruptly, the men stopped and threw each other uneasy glances.

“Are you all right, Sir?” one of them called, but he also didn't dare to come near the furious swan. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” John heard himself say as if through cotton wool. “I'm fine.”

The men stood there undecided. On the on hand, they didn't want to cross the swan, but on the other hand, they seemed impatient. They wanted to take the dead dog away, but the swan didn't want to let off his prey (dead hell hound and John?) nor from his charge (also John).

Another man pushed carefully forward. He wore a dark green overall, and John spotted the logo of the zoo on his stout chest.

Fascinated, the man, approximately John's age, stared first at the swan, then at John. A disbelieving expression on his face, he looked as if he would start to giggle excitedly every minute now. Dazed, John asked himself why. Maybe the other man was in shock.

“Go away from him slowly,” the man instructed after he had composed himself somewhat again. He pointed to the left with his head, away from the cadaver and away from the swan.

Gingerly, John followed the instructions of the other man and sneaked a few steps to the side behind the swan's back. Thankfully, his leg played along instead of giving away under him.

The animal spun around so as if it had guessed John's stealthy attempt to escape, its beetle-black eyes fixing John in place pointedly. John got the creepy feeling as if this suspicious gaze wanted to tell him not to go away too far.

But despite the menacing look, the swan didn't show any inclination to follow John. Lucky him.

The zoo keeper, or whatever he was, waited for him a few metres away. He held out his hand. “Mike Stamford,” he introduced himself, and John shook his hand while he was still gob-smacked over the whole situation. “I'm a vet and an ornithologist in the zoo.”

“John Watson.”

A huge grin spread over the friendly, a little chubby features of the man. “Do you wanna tell me how you managed that?”

“Excuse me? I don't know what you're talking about.” Perplexed, John frowned. From the corner of his eye he noticed the Royal Animal Catcher cart off the cadaver. He still sensed the razor-sharp gaze of the swan in his back, his whole attention focussed on John instead of the dead hell hound, which didn't seem to be of any interest to him any more.

Stamford seemed to notice his gaze. “They're already looking for a few days for this beast. Even were a few casualties, but thank God no lives lost. Back to the Duke.”

“Duke?”

“That's the name I've given him.” He pointed at the swan with his chin. “He's only been here for a few months, but he's already got his own Twitter account.”

“You, ehm... You do research on him or what?”

“Well, he's a pretty arrogant bastard and the most dangerous swan I've ever encountered, but on the other hand, he is the most beautiful specimen, too. So, yeah, he's something like a hobby of mine.”

John returned the calculating look of the other man which was burning from excitement. “Listen. I don't know what you want to hear from me. I sat on that bench, the hell hound attacked me, and the swan attacked the hound in turn. End of story.”

Stamford's grin grew. “At first, you would think that he wanted to defend his territory, but when the Animal Catcher came near you, he stood between you protectively. And now he doesn't want to leave you out of his sight.”

I noticed, John thought in exasperation.

Before Stamford could go on, fortunately, his mobile went off. He fished it from his pocket and already started to jog away heavy-footed, the mobile at his ear.

“Mind my words,” he called back. “You've got something on you that the Duke likes. You should feel honoured.” And with that, the ornithologist disappeared with a wink around the next bend.

John withstood the temptation to shake his head disbelievingly while he watched the other man go.

Time to get out of here. Although he had bemoaned his boring life not half an hour ago, the experience just now was more than enough for one day, thank you very much. Maybe Ella would lay off, now that he could write down today's experience in his blog.

While leaving, he turned around once more to take a last look at the swan who continued to scrutinize him, but luckily didn't follow him. A shudder ran down John's back anyway.

 

Honestly, he had no idea what drove him to return to the lake in Regent ’ s Park the next day. Not common sense, that's for sure.

Thanks to his distinct addiction for dangerous situations, he once more sat on the bench and waited. For the damn swan. His fist closed more firmly around the bag with dry toast.

He'd barely sat there for five minutes when the swan slid into the water at the shore of his small island on which he'd perched until now and swam in his direction.

God... You got the impression that this creature didn't have anything better to do the whole day than to wait for John.

John swallowed his fear, the uneasy feeling, and everything else as the swan came ashore, waddling unperturbed John's way.

Right before the bench, he stopped, his sharp beak barely thirty centimetres away from John's fingers. For a few long moments, they stared at each other intensively.

At last John lowered his gaze to the bag of toast. It probably was pretty significant (and Ella certainly would be able to tell him what exactly was significant to the whole situation) that yesterday he could have stared down this hell hound relatively fearless (provided the beast had played along), but not this scary swan.

“Okay,” he said uncertainly and fumbled with the bag to fetch a slice of toast. “It's probably not even allowed to feed you, but I wanted to say thank you.” He threw a careful gaze at the swan and held out the toast for him.

What the hell am I doing here?!, he thought. Are you completely out of your mind, Watson? Thanking this huge, aggressive beast which had only defended its territory, no matter what Stamford said.

Although inside he felt torn inside, his hand stayed perfectly still as he continued to hold the bread out to the swan. Interesting.

For a moment, he seemed to consider John's offer, but then he bowed his head and snatched the toast from John's fingers.

John flinched involuntarily, but when he realised that all of his fingers were still attached, he breathed a sigh of relief.

The bitten into slice fell down, but the swan didn't show the slightest inclination to eat the rest, too. He stared intensively at the bread on the ground, then looked up at John, and down again at the bread.

His expression clearly said, “Pick it up, you idiot, and feed me.”

A manic laugh bubbled up in John which he suppressed unyieldingly, instead it came out as a resigned sigh. Always keeping an eye on the swan's beak, he bend down to pick up the slice. Satisfied, the spoilt beast bit off a piece when John offered it to him again and this time held on to it. All the while, the swan was very careful to not catch John's fingers with his sharp beak. The last piece was taken carefully and gently from John's grip as well.

This procedure was repeated with two other slices of toast, whereas John shook his head in astonishment every time. When the bag was empty, John reclined on the bench to watch the swan (a little wary, granted). The animal returned his gaze out of frighteningly intelligent eyes before he bridged the last few centimetres between them and suddenly put his head on John's thigh.

Completely speechless, John almost choked on his own breath.

He nonetheless hesitantly reached out with his fingers after a few seconds and gently stroked his (not shaking) fingers over the soft head. The swan closed his eyes ecstatically and if he had been a cat, he would have started purring.

John pursed his lips thoughtfully. Fine, he thought irritated. Now I'm sitting here in the park and stroke a lovelorn killer swan. It couldn't get any more bizarre. He really didn't want to know how Ella would interpret all of this.

The swan didn't seem interested in the inner monologue of his human companion as long as he continued to pet him. His eyes still blissfully closed, he nestled a little closer to John so that his massive, warm body pressed against John's leg. The animal seemed to want to ensconce itself there for the foreseeable time because it settled down comfortably on the ground, leaning against John's leg in a relaxed manner.

John sighed resignedly and intensified the pressure of his fingers a little whereupon the swan made a satisfied sounding noise.

 

John felt himself getting lost in the monotonous petting and he felt relaxing calm overcome him. Time seemed to fly by because when he looked at his watch sometime again, it read a few minutes to one. Had he really sat here for a whole hour and stroked this crazy poultry!? He had to be at Ella's in forty-five minutes. – with whom he definitely wouldn't talk about the swan!

“So, ehm, Duke, I've gotta go now. Who knows what my therapist will read into my being late.” Gently, he shoved the head of the swan from his tigh and immediately missed the warmth the animal emanated.

The swan opened its eyes blinking and seemed a little disorientated. I would be too after one hour of getting a head massage, John thought cynically. But then, the Duke seemed to shake off his cosy lethargy because suddenly his head jerked up on his long neck and he looked at John reproachfully. His gaze turned to dramatic indignation as John dared to stand up and start to go away.

All the while keeping a weary eye on the scandalised, abandoned swan, John returned to the path to make his way to the exit.

He felt his steps (interesting: No limp today) becoming faster. However, for some reason, he turned around again after a few metres and pressed his lips together exasperatedly because the swan waddled after him in determination as far as his short legs would carry him.

“Oh no, forget it, mate,” John reprimanded the swan who didn't seem impressed by his words in the slightest, and instead continued to simply follow him undeterred.

John wanted to break out in hysterical laughter – or start to cry in frustration. With a severe gaze, he stopped and stared down at the swan who had caught up to him by now. Stoically, John crossed his arms. “You can't come with me,” he tried to reason (Reason! With a swan! Just imagine it!). “If I show up at Ella's office with you in tow, she'll have me committed in the blink of an eye.”

John managed to hold the sulky stare of the Duke, who eventually transformed from snotty toddler to abandoned toddler. John had to swallow heavily when the pleading eyes looked up at him. If the swan were a human, his bottom lip surely would have started to tremble and he would've squeezed a tear from the corner of his eye.

Sighing, John squatted before the swan and petted without any hesitance the downy neck. “I'm sorry. It's really impossible. But I'll come by again tomorrow. Promise.”

The dejected look turned so fast to anticipation (John wouldn't have believed it himself, but he was sure that the Duke understood every word John said) that John didn't even have time to blink.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, well,” he stammered stoically and rose again. A little stiff-legged, he moved away from the swan, all the while throwing insecure glances back over his shoulder.

The swan kept looking after him, his gaze despite everything clearly reproachful about John's escape, but he obeyed and didn't follow John.

 

When John returned from a truly productive further session with his therapist to his room, he simply sat on his bed in indecision at first for a time. He couldn't stop thinking about the swan. It was doubtlessly a very unusual occurrence which had happened to him, but on the other hand... Well. There were stranger things in this world than a frighteningly intelligent swan sticking to John's heels and then refusing to let him go.

Absent-mindedly, he let his gaze roam through the room until he stopped at his laptop. What had Stamford told him yesterday? He set up a Twitter account for the swan?

Suddenly curious, John sat down before his laptop.

And indeed. The Duke had his own page with a horde of fans like it seemed. Every few days, Stamford posted news and photos. To be precise; the last entry was only two hours old. With a queasy feeling, John started the video.

The quality was pretty good, therefore it was filmed with a professional camera instead with a mobile's tiny camera. You could see the lake in Regent ’ s Park, but the camera seemed to be on the water. Stamford had to be in a boat. The camera zoomed in on the swan which throned on the small island in the middle of the lake.

“Looks a little stressed to me today,” Stamford commented from the Off. “No, rather... Somehow impatient, as if he...” He broke off because just in this moment, the Duke rose and glided into the water. Stamford followed him with the camera over to the shore. The uneasy feeling in John's stomach grew into a knot in his guts as, on the screen, he suddenly saw himself sitting on the bench.

“Ah, that's what he waited for,” Stamford murmured, and John could clearly hear the smug grin in Stamford's voice.

John watched the scene which had taken place just a few hours ago, but this time with the eyes of an outsider. Granted, the sight of the huge swan letting himself be fed, and then, meek as a lamb, snuggling up to John really was a bit... odd.

Until now, Stamford hadn't made a sound again, but now, when John put his hand on the swan's head to pet him, the ornithologist whistled through his teeth. “Incredible,” he whispered. “Who are you, John Watson? You're either incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid, my friend, to get involved with the Duke.”

John wasn't sure if he should feel flattered by Stamford's words.

With mixed feelings, he watched the rest of the video. It didn't show the whole hour of him sitting with the swan, but had been cut to a few highlights, including his almost unsuccessful departure.

Sighing, John scrolled through the website for a bit longer. His glorious first meeting with his animal quasi-stalker was available on video, too, although in a much worse quality as John found after risking a look. Stamford must have filmed the tumultuous event with his mobile phone.

In the end, he sat before his laptop for a few moments, frowning, before he looked half-heartedly at the Twitter-site some more, the many pictures of the Duke, the comments (Vexed, John flinched, because a frightening amount of people already had posted comments about him; most of the time, they were positive and went along the lines of, “My God! Who is this guy?! That's incredible!”), and the list of the Duke's followers (this blasted bird really had tons of fans, and even – John had to blink in disbelief – the king was a follower of the swan! Unbelievable!).

It crossed John's mind that he maybe shouldn't go back to Regent ’ s Park and the swan. He really could take a pass on the unwanted attention of some Twitter-users which obviously hadn't anything better to do than trace the seemingly very exciting life of a swan.

 

But something, he just didn't know what, compelled him to return to the shores of the lake in Regent ’ s Park the next day also. Frustrated, he headed for his bench, but had to realise that it was occupied. Just as well, he thought, and stopped a few metres away on the footpath, letting his gaze roam over the lake. The swan perched on his island, cleaning his plumage, which was why he hadn't noticed John yet. 

“Hey.”

John startled because he in turn hadn't noticed the advancing ornithologist.

“Hey,” he greeted back. “Today without your camera?” John asked pointedly, sounding a little more peeved than intended.

Stamford had the good grace to flinch guiltily and scrunched up his face in embarrassment. “You noticed.”

“I did.”

“Sorry, man. I should have asked your permission before I published it.” Helplessly, Stamford shrugged his shoulders. “But you can't imagine how excited I've been!”

John threw him an involuntarily amused look from the corner of his eye. The stocky man next to him made a face like a kid under the Christmas tree. This appeased John somewhat. “It's fine,” he soothed the ornithologist finally, who breathed out in relief.

Wrapped in companionable silence, the two men stood at the shore for a while and watched the uneventful happenings in the water.

Maybe not even five minutes had gone by when the swan suddenly ceased his grooming and his head shot up. As dignified as possible, he hurried into the water and swam in the direction of the shore.

“Ehm, you'd better leave there,” Stamford called over to the couple occupying the bench.

Irritated, the two love birds turned to the two men, scrutinized them disparagingly from head to toe, and then ignored them to turn their attention back to each other.

Stamford sighed loudly and a little painfully. “That's why I prefer working with birds,” he grumbled, and just wanted to march up to the bench just as the Duke reached the shore, running at the couple with wide spread wings and hissing savagely. At least the two were now clever enough to give chase.

John and Stamford shook their heads in exasperation.

“I'd better go to him before he strains something in his impatience,” John declared and got under way because the glare of the swan was now focussed on him and Stamford, whom he scrutinised not really benevolently.

“Okay. See ya.”

“Yep. You, too.”

And then Stamford made himself scarce, although John was convinced that the other man wouldn't go away too far, curious as he was.

Sighing, John went over to the swan, who waited impatiently next to the bench, and asked himself what the hell his life had become.

 

As much as John intended to not do it, something dragged him to Regent ’ s Park day after day. He caught himself, every day he visited with the swan, staying a little longer every time (and every day, his trouble of convincing the clingy beast to let him go grew steadily). But hey, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do. When he was with the Duke, he at least could forget his empty life for a few hours, even if he knew awfully well that he couldn't live forever in the narrow, dismal room, and he therefore should look straight away for a job – if somebody wanted an invalid ex-soldier with PTSD, that is. 

Wondrously, his leg became better with every passing day, too, so that eventually, he could even forgo his cane completely. He didn't want to admit, however, that this incredible cure correlated with his encounter with the Duke. He didn't feel ready to concede to this, because he wondered uneasily what this may tell him about his future. After all, he couldn't go visit the swan for the rest of its life only for his psychosomatic limp not to hinder him any more.

 

It was a nicely warm and sunny day, and John had opened the window of his room wide while he patiently waited in front of his toaster for an afternoon snack which he wolfed down no sooner than it had plopped out of the toaster and had been topped off with ham  (Eating standing up was supposed to be unhealthy, but toast was toast after all and would have been disgustingly cold even before he would've reached the table) . After, he sat down with his laptop, absent-mindedly browsing this and that, but after a while, he was plagued with utter boredom.

Not for long, though, because barely one hour after he'd left Regent ’ s Park for the day, the Duke suddenly sailed through John's open window in rather an ungraceful fashion and landed tumbling on the carpet. 

John leaped up, scared to death, and now stared bewildered at his uninvited guest.

“How did you,” he exclaimed in a stammer. But then, he composed himself again remarkably fast and angrily stemmed his hands into his hips. “You're not serious, are you?!”

The swan looked up at him with duplicitously heart-breaking puppy eyes, at the same time with a determined gleam in his beady eyes though, and he didn't even have the decency to at least be a little ashamed about his uninvited appearance.

“Do you know in how much trouble I'll be if they find you here?!” John cried reproachfully, which didn't seem to interest the swan even in the slightest. “I could get kicked out of here for keeping a pet without permission, and the people at Regent’s Park will think I've kidnapped you, putting the Royal Animal Catcher on me. And then they throw me into jail. Do you want that?!” Admittedly, he had gone a bit overboard, but you couldn't talk otherwise to this drama queen after all. For a tiny, promising moment, the Duke looked insecure, but then he raised his beak haughtily, and had he possessed a nose, he would have sniffed at John blasé.

“Okay, that's it,” John changed his line of attack, because much as he'd like to, he couldn't keep the swan here. “I call Stamford. He shall come and get you.”

A sudden desperate, angry hiss made John abort his reaching out for his mobile phone abruptly. Alarmed and completely unprepared for this fierce reaction, he stared at the swan, who seemed to have composed itself again and now marched up to John regally, so as if it wasn't him who was the troublemaker here, but rather someone else, so as if none of this couldn't affect him. Possessively, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he looped his long neck around John's leg and started to pluck at the hem of John's trousers lovingly much like he would groom another bird's feathers.

Utterly swamped, John stared down at the clingy swan, and for a few long moments, he didn't know what to do now.

Eventually, he threw his up arms in defeat, carefully extracted his leg from the living vine, and returned to his seat. “Oh well,” he cried in exasperation. “For the love of God, stay. But you better not foul the carpet.”

The swan dignified him with a gaze that clearly called John's intelligence into question, then he waddled a few steps up to him, and finally settled down next to John's chair with dignity.

Bewildered, John shook his head and stared down on his visitor before he turned his stoic attention back to his laptop, trying not to think about the hulky beast crouching not even thirty centimetres away from his leg. And he didn't want to reflect upon the scene the Duke would make when Stamford came here to collect him again, either. This was something he could still think about tomorrow.

 

After warming up tin soup for himself and toast for the swan, John decided to call it an early day.

He sensed the penetrating gaze of the swan in his back. The animal seemed to follow all of his movements painstakingly while John readied himself for bed. For some reason, he was suddenly embarrassed to change before the blasted bird, which was why he escaped to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind himself.

When he returned, he met the observant gaze of the swan who still crouched next to the chair without even twitching.

As John climbed into bed, though, the Duke rose and waddled over to him.

John didn't know if he should laugh or cry.

“You can't really think that I allow you into my bed,” he clarified drily. “And why the hell am I talking to you?!”

Shaking his head once more, John crawled under his blanket and tried to block out the swan still standing watchfully next to his bed so that he eventually would be able to sleep.

 

He only must have dozed for a little while because when suddenly the frantic rustling of feathers reached his ears, he immediately was wide awake. John startled up, breathing heavily but controlled, and his alarmed gaze instinctively sought out the swan at once. Bright moonlight fell through the window onto the floor before his bed where the swan sat, so that he immediately could sum up the situation.

“Oh no,” he mumbled frantically as he realised that something was profoundly wrong. The bird trembled and twisted as if in great pain. From his throat sounded choking, distressed noises. John sprang from the bed and knelt before the swan. His hands shook when he reached out for the swan because, by all means, he didn't know what he should do now. He just wanted to reach for his mobile lying on the night stand to call Stamford as the swan suddenly spread his powerful wings. The impact with one of the hard wings made John recoil, so that he crashed painfully against the bed. Spellbound, but deeply worried, too, he watched the swan. Another strong shudder went through the creature, then he reared up, and finally became utterly still. Suddenly, his body started to... stretch, to elongate, to grow, on and on. Snow-white feathers suddenly disappeared, so as if they would draw back under the skin.

John had to blink and he didn't dare to breathe. Incredulous, he stared at the crouched, trembling figure on the floor before him. Sweat covered the bare skin of the man, soaking wild black locks while his breath came in gasping puffs.

John was rattled abruptly out of his rigour as the man tried to sit up, only to crumble back onto the floor with an exhausted whimper. Suddenly completely calm and composed again, John crawled over to the man and decidedly wrapped his arms around him to pull him up onto the bed.

He breathed heavily himself when he'd accomplished tucking in the man into his bed tightly.

Heavy lids rose, and exhausted, but clear eyes looked at John.

“John,” the man whispered in a rough voice.

“I'm here,” John murmured soothingly while he instinctively started to gently stroke the man's arm. While making this unconscious gesture, the doctor in him started to examine the other man. He didn't seem hurt, only tired. The transformation must have been unbelievably exhausting and painful, his body still wrecked by weak, slowly ebbing tremors. Then, the man in him started to regard the stranger. The skin he caressed was almost as white as the feathers of the swan, and equally as soft. The black, curly hair stood in a sharp contrast to the fair skin and the white linens on which he lay. He couldn't make out the other's eye colour in the relative darkness, but their cat-like shape was clearly distinguishable. As were the elegantly bowed, full lips and the high, prominent cheekbones.

“Who are you?” he whispered more to himself than to his swan.

But he looked up to him, his gaze less exhausted and full of pain than before.

“My name is Sherlock,” his guest whispered hoarsely which set John into motion again to arrange for a glass of water.

Gently, he helped Sherlock to sit up and held the glass against his lips. The other man gratefully drank a few sips before he slumped back into John's arms. Carefully, John let him bury into the pillows once more.

“What happened to you?” John blurted out curiously. He rather should think about his guest's well-being and let him rest, but he was so overwhelmed that he just had to question him.

For a contemplative moment, Sherlock closed his eyes before he opened them again, breathing deeply, and scrutinized John with this frighteningly intense gaze which John already knew from the swan. “I was cursed. A few months ago. It was... the circumstances leading to this were rather unfortunate.”

“And now?” John asked excitedly. “Is the curse broken?”

“No. Every night at midnight I turn back just for an hour.” Sherlock grimaced. “Not a nice experience crouching on this small island night after night, freezing my ass off..”

“But why are you staying there? Don't you have any family to which you could return?”

Sherlock hesitated, and John just couldn't help himself; he was sure that he had seen Sherlock before... Sherlock... He mulled this over. That was the name of the missing prince... Oh fuck.

“Shit, you are... you are the prince!” John cried out in shock as it dawned on him.

Sherlock flinched, but held up a placating hand. “Please, titles are not necessary. Just ignore who I am. That's not important now.”

“Oh, okay,” John replied meekly, even if a little weak. In this surreal situation, it would be for the best, like the dutiful soldier he was, just to do what he was being told without questioning it. He felt his hammering heart come to rest gradually and he desperately tried to see the man like he did before his little epiphany. Somehow, it wasn't really hard. “Why aren't you with your brother? Does he even know where you are, and what happened to you?”

At a loss, Sherlock shrugged. “He probably knows.”

Then, a thought occurred to John. “The king... he follows you on Twitter.”

“Then he knows.” Baffled, Sherlock peered at him. “I have a Twitter account?”

“Mike Stamford made it. The ornithologist from the zoo.”

“Ah. He's watching me constantly.”

For a few moments, there was a thick silence between them, and Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something. Obviously, it made him uncomfortable to tell John, though. Nervously, he picked on a fold in the blanket.

“What?” John asked therefore because he'd noticed Sherlock's nervousness.

“Well,” the younger man began hesitantly. “If my brother knows that I am this swan, then he has his people watching me... And therefore, you too.”

“Me!?” John cried horrified. “The _king_ has me under surveillance?” Reflexively, he looked around his room, but couldn't spot anything suspicious of course. 

“He always had the gall to meddle with my life and monitor me. And the people I got in contact with. That won't have changed.”

“Hmpf. That the reason why you're not in the palace?” After all, John knew all about patronising, annoying older siblings. “But maybe he could find you some help.”

“No. The curse can't be broken by another wizard. Only... Well, not important.”

“How did this happen anyway? Who cursed you?”

“Ever heard of Jim Moriarty?“

John thought frantically. “A pretty powerful wizard, right?”

“Hmhm. And dark. Not officially, of course, but everybody knows that he is a criminal mastermind. Nobody can proof him anything though, not even me, although I tried really hard. That's why nobody wants him at court. Unfortunately, he developed an... obsession.”

“Of you?”

Sherlock nodded darkly. “While I tried to uncover his dark deeds. His attentions were repugnant to me, but he wouldn't let up. And since Moriarty is, to put it mildly, pretty nuts, he cursed me. If  _he_ couldn't have me, then nobody should.”

“That's creepy. Are you sure he doesn't watch you, too?”

“Mostly. In his eyes, he beat me, therefore, I'm of no interest to him any more.”

“Let's hope so.” Inquiringly, John scrutinized the young prince next to him. “But now tell me what it is that can break the curse?”

“Ach, it's... it's nothing,” Sherlock evaded John's question and dodged his inquisitive look.

“Out with it. You _do_ want to become human again, don't you? Maybe I can help.” John was irritated about this unbelievable stubbornness, but by now though, he was used to it from the swan. And Sherlock did act exactly like the swan. Obviously, it didn't matter if he was man or animal. 

“It... it's just so... horribly cliché and silly...”

John's piercing look eventually made him throw up his arms in defeat. “All right!” he moaned put out. “The curse can only be broken through True Love's Kiss.”

Oh.

“Okay. That's really clichéd.”

“Yes. But unfortunately, that's how it works.”

But then, why had the swan been at his heels so persiste...

“Hold on. Do you think I'm your True Love?” John had to swallow shakily and nervously raked his fingers through his hair. “Was that what this was all about the whole time? Why you followed me, and saved me, and all? We don't even know each other.”

Indignantly, Sherlock sat up, blushing in embarrassment. “I just followed my instincts,” he defended himself vehemently. “You're different from everyone I've ever met. I don't know if fate meant me well and you  _are_ the One, but I know that...”

“What?”

Sherlock kept silent stubbornly.

“Why did you save me from this hell hound?” John prodded. “I was only one of many in the park.”

“I saw you from my island,” Sherlock began reluctantly. “I was always good at estimating people, the skill only seemed to get stronger combined with my instincts as a swan. When I saw you, I just knew. I sensed that you are different. I didn't know who you were – well, okay, that you are an invalided army doctor with a psychosomatic limp because you are an adrenaline junky on withdrawal instead of suffering from PTSD like your therapist claims was obvious even from afar –, and I didn't know what it was that drew me to you, but I just needed to get to you.”

John calmly listened, but on the inside, he wasn't nearly as calm as he appeared on the outside. It sounded crazy, but he felt it, too; This connection which he couldn't even describe properly. It was just there. And it was strong. First with the swan, in whose definitely dangerous presence he'd felt so at ease, but now infinitely stronger since knowing Sherlock in human form. And they only knew each other since roughly thirty minutes. Maybe it was fate. Although never believing in things like this, now he was willing to trust in it without questioning.

“I'll do everything I can to help you, Sherlock,” he promised therefore into the silence because no matter would happen, it was the right thing to do to help Sherlock.

Big eyes looked up to him. “Why should you?” Sherlock whispered disbelieving and surveyed John thoroughly. “Because, you're right, we don't know each other.”

John shrugged. “I could tell you I want to do it because I have such a good heart, but... the truth is... I feel it, too. This... thing between us. If I'm honest, I've felt it from the beginning, but then I couldn't place it. Only now do I realise what it could mean; that fate brought us together, that our meeting was predestined.”

“You... feel it, too?!” the prince breathed astonished and stared at John with big eyes.

John nodded, returning Sherlock's intense gaze. “But I don't know if... Do you know how this True-Love's-Kiss thing works? Is it only important that two people are chosen by fate to be together, or wouldn't it be better to get to know each other first and fall in love with each other? Maybe I can't stand you, and yet you shall be my True Love?”

Sherlock chuckled as he listened to John's considerations, which, granted, weren't even that stupid. “That's not really my subject,” he admitted dryly. “Therefore, we have to conduct an experiment to get the desired results.”

Now, John had to chuckle, too. “An experiment, yeah?” He gently shook his head, then he sighed. “You shouldn't talk about something like this so clinically”

“Why not? Love is a chemical reaction, or, in our case I hope, a predestined chemical reaction. So...”

Sherlock fell silent automatically, he was that surprised as John suddenly lay his hand over his mouth. Blue eyes glared at him cheekily.

“Shut up,” the older man ordered before he bend forwards, took away his hand, and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock sensed it the moment John's lips met his: A warm feeling suddenly coursed through him. It spread through his whole body and became hotter with every second. And the hotter it got, the... more ecstatic got the feelings running through his neural pathway. Unconsciously, he moaned into the kiss while the feeling got stronger and stronger. Desperately, he clung to John's T-Shirt. He started to tremble and sweat broke out on his whole body. And then... then suddenly, this spiralling ecstasy seemed to explode inside of him and he cried out, his scream muffled through John's mouth.

Shaking and gasping, he moved away from the other man eventually and stared at him with huge eyes. In passing, his brain registered that John too looked overwhelmed and... satisfied – Sherlock felt his cheeks getting red – and that he trembled as well. Suddenly, Sherlock took notice of the uncomfortable dampness on his stomach and he swallowed mortified. Did he just... Ashamed, he lowered his gaze, but John immediately put his fingers gently under his chin to lift it up again.

“Hey,” he whispered soothingly. “Ev'rything's all right, do you hear.” John's soothing, gentle voice managed to slowly calm down Sherlock's agitated mind, but he still felt deeply rooted, disturbing shame over what he'd just experienced with this man. And it had only been a kiss.

John looked fondly at the young man and tried to calm him down through his voice and his fingers carding through his black locks, but on the inside, John felt as agitated as Sherlock looked. The warm feeling welling up in him when he'd kissed Sherlock had been a surprise – Magic, simply –, but it had just felt so good. But he never would've expected what happened after. And Sherlock hadn't either. John didn't have any experience with magic and he knew very little about it, but he was sure that he would have remembered if somebody'd described this clichéd True-Love's-Kiss business like the best sex in the world.

“That was,” mumbled John a little wrecked, and squirmed in the bed because of the damp-sticky feeling at the front of his boxers, “Unexpected.” Absent-mindedly, he stroked his thumb over Sherlock's full lips, staring at them as if spellbound. “But unbelievably good.”

“Hard to outdo as first kisses go,” Sherlock admitted tiredly while he was seized with a blissful shudder because of John's oh so tiny touch on his lips.

Somehow, John thought Sherlock's tone of voice a little odd. “That was your first kiss?” he blurted out incredulously (actually, he'd wanted to tread carefully, but the sudden revelation was too much of a surprise), whereupon Sherlock blushed and evaded his gaze.

“Yes,” the younger man replied softly and pressed his lips together. He flinched when he suddenly felt John's lips on his once again. An echo of the strong magic from earlier still made their lips tingle, and then John had moved away from him again in a heart beat. Hazy, Sherlock looked up to him and wished for John to kiss him again.

“Nothing for which you have to be ashamed of,” the older man told him instead. “On the contrary.” He bent down to Sherlock so that he was forced to sink back into the cushion. John's lips gently grazed the other man's and he let his hands roam possessively over Sherlock's naked shoulders. The only thing Sherlock could do was cling helplessly to John's upper arms. “No idea if it's magic which connects us, but it drives me mad just thinking of another touching you before me.”

Sherlock blinked light-headed and tightened his hold around John's upper arms while working on forcing down the gust of arousal coursing through his body once more. Then he grinned. “I'm all yours.” And with that he pulled John down to lie upon him before they descended into another deep kiss.

A sudden loud grumbling made both men freeze. Surprised, they parted and stared down at Sherlock's stomach. An endearing blush promptly spread once more over Sherlock's cheeks. “Ehm,” he made, but John only laughed at him affectionately.

“Well, kissing doesn't feed you up.”

“Ach,” Sherlock made, accompanied by a dismissive gesture. “It's only transport, John. We should ignore it.”

As if in protest, his stomach let out another loud growl.

This made John laugh even more and he shook his head. “No way. We'll get you something to eat first.”

Sherlock's sinful mouth curled into a pout. “But please no toast. I'm so sick of toast and water plants.”

Now at the latest, John couldn't contain himself any more, but started to giggle uncontrollably. “Sure,” he panted. “I think that can be arranged.”

Sherlock grimaced once again irritated, which was at odds with the amused grin wanting to curl his lips. “I'd probably even deem one of your canned soups a five star menu, but let's just go eat out.”

John chuckled and looked Sherlock's naked body pointedly up and down.

He uttered an exasperated, insulted noise and pulled John's blanket over his head with much dramatics.

“You know what, I simply order something.” John grinned and patted the sulking pile of bedding. “What would you like?”

“Chinese,“ sounded muffled from under the pile of fabric.

“As you wish.” John patted the beddings once more and then left the bed to call for their take-away.

 

While they waited for their food, Sherlock deigned to crawl out of his cave nest eventually, settling at the table clad only in a sheet while John set the table.

“I'll give you a few of my things if you're more comfortable,” John offered, but Sherlock just turned up his nose at that.

“I'll manage. I probably won't need the sheet for long.” Despite this unambigouos, pretty confident and aloof declaimed sexual demand, Sherlock's whole face became beet red as he seemed to realise what he just said, and he hastily avoided John's gaze.

He had to chuckle. “Seem pretty confident in that regard.”

This made Sherlock's gaze swivel abruptly back to John. The older man immediately felt guilty as he saw the fear of rejection and the disappointment in Sherlock's mercury-coloured eyes. He put down his cutlery and leant over the table to kiss Sherlock. “You're probably right,” he tried to placate him through this concession and without making an overly emotional fuss so that Sherlock could preserve his dignity. “Clothes are rather a mighty hindrance in bed.” John winked at him, which made the younger man blush promptly again, but John didn't miss the relief passing through Sherlock.

Before the situation could become even more embarrassing for the younger man, it knocked on the door, and John turned his attention to the arrival of the food.

 

Content like an over-stuffed python, Sherlock leant back in his seat, his hands folded over the gentle swelling of his normally flat stomach. Even if the pork had been a bit too well done (he usually preferred duck, but after his adventures as a swan, this would have seemed like cannibalism to him), and although he hadn't managed to deduce the fortune cookies, it had been a long time that he'd eaten with such a healthy appetite, so much that he'd even wolfed down half of John's portion (at least the pieces he'd managed to pilfer before John, laughing, had poked him with fork or chopsticks). Normally, he didn't eat during a case, of course, and even if he was famished after the case, food consumption was only a means to an end. So, when he now thought this to be the best meal ever, it couldn't only be because of his relief to not have to eat water plants and toast any more. He had... fun during the meal. Yes, you could probably call it that. And it must have to do solely with John. The man fascinated him more and more with every passing second he was with him and he wasn't bored even a bit. And he made Sherlock laugh (and John laughed with him instead of about him – Sherlock found John's carefree laugh so adorable that he wanted to ensure that John was happy for the rest of his life just that Sherlock could see him laugh). Difficult to say which of the two things was the bigger challenge for the people he associated with normally. But John, fascinating, caring, brave and not boring John, had achieved to do both. If John hadn't broken the curse already and thus proofed that he and Sherlock belonged together, this would have been the ultimate evidence. Because like John said already: They may be meant for each other, but that was a far cry from saying that they fit as well. But John matched Sherlock. Obviously he thought him as fascinating as Sherlock found him, called him brilliant when Sherlock told him about a few of his cases – promptly causing another blush (he really had to get this under control, it was annoying... and unbelievably stimulating and flattering; maybe he should tell John about the case with the ghost in the Tower, one of his best, to reap a few more “brilliant” and fantastic”). Nobody had ever shown this reaction to his cases and deductions! And it probably would never happen again. John Watson was unique. He would do everything possible to ensure that John Watson would never disappear from his life again!

“Hey.”

Sherlock startled as John gently put his hand on Sherlock's and smiled at him lovingly. “You seem far away. What's on your mind?”

“You,” Sherlock eventually confessed bluntly because he wanted to be honest with John from the start even if it was difficult for him to talk about his feelings. “Us,” he continued softly and evaded John's gaze, blushing furiously. “If there is an 'us'.”

John's hand tightened around Sherlock's, squeezing encouragingly. “You better believe that there will be an us, Sherlock,” the older man explained enthusiastically, but also with a certain seriousness in his voice. “It's crazy and rash, and ev'rybody will think we're, well, crazy, but this,” John put both hands around Sherlock's face, “Something like this only happens once in a lifetime, if at all. I never believed in something like fate, but... Here we are.“

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded slowly and thoughtfully while he gifted John with a shy smile. “Here we are.”

John rose and gently pulled him up with him. “Come to bed, yeah?”

Sherlock swallowed and for a moment, his mind was blank, the only thing he could do was stare at John while his fingers clutched the sheet desperately.

He didn't even know himself what he had been hoping to find in John's open, trusting face, but suddenly, Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “Yes.”

 

John flinched when, early the next morning, somebody knocked on his door. Sighing, he threw a last gaze at the sleeping young god in his arms whom he'd simply watched in the thirty minutes he'd been awake already, and climbed from the bed. At the last moment, he remembered to probably better put on his jeans before opening the door. T-Shirt couldn't hurt either.

An attractive young woman with flowing dark hair in a posh ladies' suit stood before his door. Without a “good morning”, she pushed a bulging suit bag into John's unresisting hand and a big paper bag bearing the logo of some posh café into the other, the delicious smells wafting from the bag almost overwhelming him. As soon as her hands were free, she pulled forth a Blackberry, somehow seeming pretty relieved to have it in her hands again, her delicate fingers flying over the keys lightning-quick. “A car is waiting downstairs for His Royal Highness,” she explained without looking up from her Blackberry even once (withdrawal symptoms, John guessed).

John puckered his lips disapprovingly. How rude those people from the palace were. “All right,” he replied therefore with just an overly polite smile and then closed the door in her face. She was probably so engrossed in her Blackberry that she didn't even notice.

With a shake of his head, John deposited the heavy suit bag on the table and carefully climbed back into bed with the bag precariously balanced in his hands.

The smell of coffee was so strong that after a few seconds, Sherlock opened his eyes a tiny bit to first blink at John, then at the bag between them while making soft sniffling noises like a sleepy mole so as if he planned on finding his breakfast by simply following his nose.

“Good morning, sunshine,” John teased, and bend down to Sherlock for a quick peck. “They brought us breakfast and some clothes for you.”

By now, Sherlock had managed to open his eyes fully, accepting one of the two cups.

“Obviously,” he grumbled, and sniffed at the opening of the lid, before swapping his cup with John's. Only then did he treat himself to a long draught of hot coffee. The ecstatic moan he made roused a vigorous interest in certain parts of John's body which made him think of last night's activites. So as not to simply fling himself at the other man this early in the morning, he took an alibi sip of his coffee. And almost moaned. The brew running down his throat was perfect. He'd rather not think too hard on how the palace knew how he took his coffee.

“Hope they remembered my coat,” Sherlock grumbled after finishing his coffee orgy. He blinked at John out of the corner of his eye. “Who's it been?”

Interested, John peeked into the bag which emanated a mouthwatering smell of warm pastries. “Some attractive brunette whose Siamese twin seemed to be her Blackberry.”

“Ah, Anthea. Then it's all right.” Sherlock waved his hand at John's questioning look. “Right-hand woman of my brother. Pulls the strings in the British government, so she's competent.”

“And your brother sends her to bring us breakfast and clothes?” John asked amused, fishing a nut pastry from the bag.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Seems there's no war for her to plan at the moment.”

“Aha. Good to know.”

 

After the unexpected breakfast, Sherlock inspected the contents of the suit bag and draped himself swiftly, and with a contented expression over Anthea's competence, in the bespoke suite she'd delivered for him.

“Hmpf,” Sherlock made while he scrutinised his form in the mirror, fingering critically his form-fitting aubergine-coloured shirt – in which he looked fantastic by the way, John could barely turn his eyes away from him. “I lost weight,” he noted surly. “My whole wardrobe won't fit any more.”

John eyed him disbelieving. “Fits like a glove.”

Instead of explaining his predicament further, Sherlock simply gave another indignant “hmpf” before he resolutely snatched up the dark blue cashmere scarf and the heavy anthracite-coloured coat which had been part of the clothes delivery as well.

A little unsure, John watched the man wrapping the coat around his shoulders with a dramatic gesture. Sherlock must have noticed John's look, even if he himself hadn't fully realised yet what put him in such a gloomy mood for he turned to him expactantly.

“Come with me,” Sherlock suddenly pleaded with him (well, 'demanded' probably was the better word, but John didn't want to be petty).

“Where to?” John blinked at him with big eyes. “The palace?”

“Heavens, no!” Sherlock cried, appalled. “I don't live in the palace, but in Baker Street.”

“Why Baker Street?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Number 221 belongs to my old nanny, Mrs. Hudson. I live with her.”

John couldn't help himself, he just had to chuckle. He'd rather not speak aloud how it would seem to outsiders that the Duke of York lived with his nanny at the fine age of thirty. But Sherlock seemed to guess John's thoughts, because he scrunched up his nose.

“She's my landlady, John, not my nanny any more,” the younger man defended himself vehemently and exasperated. “It's not my fault if I can't get her out of her clucky behaviour. Should I let the tea appearing in the morning out of the blue just go to waste?!”

“Of course not,” John teased him. “You're a role model for altruism and the willingness to make sacrifices.”

“Hmpf,” Sherlock made indignantly. “So, you come with me, or not? You can't stay forever in this hovel, and Mrs. Hudson will adore you, if just for everything you've done for me.”

John crossed his arms before his chest, but couldn't completely suppress a grin. “Is this your attempt to ask me if I want to move in with you in your twisted way?”

Sherlock's pretty nose scrunched up haughtily. “If you so want.” He scrutinised John suddenly with a piercing gaze. “I told you yesterday that I solve crimes for Scotland Yard. A doctor and soldier would come in handy with that. And now that we're in a...” Sherlock blushed. “Are in a, you know what, I'd like to have you with me. But I should probably warn you. Sometimes, when my mind won't come to rest, I play the violin until late at night and quite often, I don't talk for days. And when I'm on a case, I don't eat, no matter how hard you may try to bring me to it. And sometimes it can happen that Mycroft suddenly appears in our living room when he has one of his control fits. He'll want to meet you regardless, so probably better at our own means than in the palace. And I bet Mummy already plans the wedding. So, if all this doesn't deter you too much, it would be nice... I mean, would you like to...”

John cut off Sherlock's adorable stammering through a kiss. “I think I can cope,” he smiled, suddenly unbelievably happy when his irrational fears that all of this was just a dream and he now would be brutally pulled back into reality simply evaporated. Sherlock's tense shoulders relaxed as well. He didn't care about the details as long as John was with him, and he was glad that he hadn't been wrong about John's cravings for adventure and dang er (improbable, but not impossible for even him to be wrong). Sherlock didn't k now what he would have done if John would have said no.

But then John thought of something which put a damper on his gleeful anticipation. “But what about the rent, Sherlock? Downtown is too expensive for my army pension. Even if I find a new job, I still don't know if...”

“Tss, please,” Sherlock interrupted him testily. “Don't waste a thought on the rent. And from this day on, your job is fighting against the criminals of London. If you still feel the urge to work part time in some boring, pedestrian clinic to save the world, you can do that as long as it doesn't interfere with The Work. Believe me, you will thank me. Such a boring life as a medic isn't for you. You are an adrenaline junkie, you need the kick. And I can give you that. But please don't do it because you worry about money. I know you would be too proud to accept anything from me, but if you want, I will pay you for being my assistent and partner.” Sherlock paused his gun like monologue for drawing a tiny breath and frowned. “Presumably, Mycroft will have generously rewarded you already for your deeds, and no matter what you do, you won't get rid of the money from your bank accounts, trust me, I tried. And when we marry eventually, you would be well provided for anyway. Out of gratitude that somebody finally wants to marry me, Mummy probably would gift you with the crown jewels if you're interested in something like this. Whatever, I think it's for the best if you handle our finances anyway. I don't have time and leisure for this. By the way, the same goes for shopping.”

John glared at him in amusement.

“What?!”

“Are you finished now?”

“Obviously. I only wanted to eliminate all ambiguity beforehand.”

“Hmhm, I see that you don't need a nanny.”

Sherlock pouted when John couldn't contain his giggling any more. “I stand corrected: Rather round the clock care.”

To smooth the ruffled feathers a little, he pulled Sherlock to him at the collar of his coat, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him briefly but fiercely.

“So, this was a 'yes'?” Sherlock panted shakily as John separated from him again.

“Course it was a 'yes',” John confirmed, calmly readjusting the collar of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock tried, but he didn't manage to hide the overjoyed expression on his face, so that John just wanted to kiss him again.

Hm, why the hell not.

So he did just that. This time a little longer so that both of them were out of breath when they moved apart.

“Very well.” Sherlock cleared his throat and put on a highly ponderous expression. “Then let's get out of here.”

Without deigning to look back even for one second at John's accursed, pathetic dwelling, the prince turned on the spot and stalked to the door of the flat with dramatically flying coat. At the entrance however, he stopped and held out his hand to John almost shyly.

A huge grin spread over John's face, correlating with the warm feeling of happiness resembling fireworks going off in his chest.

He grabbed his jacket and hurried after Sherlock. Both men kept silent as they took each other's hand, but they left the flat side by side with satisfied, happy smiles on their faces.

**End**

 

 

 


End file.
